Re: Black girl magic

"The most common way people give up their power is by thinking they don't have any." - Alice Walker

Throne of Light by Moe Ballinger

In the first month of 2024, there was a twisting feeling within me that I was destined for something more, and that there was a well of untapped power somewhere within me that hadn’t been summoned yet. In the eleventh month of 2024, life has now given me several concrete signs that the power I have is indeed real, and the things I’ve accomplished so far don’t even hold a candle to what I’ll do in the future. I can sense imposter syndrome’s grip on me finally loosening. I feel as though, after months of toiling and twisting within this cocoon, I’m finally ready to transcend that barrier and extend my wings of glory.

How did I come to this realization, you ask? I attended Megan thee Stallion’s Hottieween party, of course.

I wrote another piece on how masculinity is inherently more comfortable than femininity, specifically where clothing is concerned. As I’ve fully come to terms with my sexuality this year (#letsgolesbians), I’ve finally allowed myself to wear what feels good to me rather than what appeals to the male eye. This usually manifests as loose pants, big t-shirts, flannels and sneakers. It feels so much more natural to me, while in hindsight, the skin-tight ensembles I used to pull off were actually nothing more than a costume. It just…wasn’t me.

It's time to get comfortable (for once)

So naturally, I saw no better time to revisit the “super cunt slay” of it all for the original hot girl’s spooky bash. “Costumes required!” the ticket confirmation email said. I ended up going as Luci from Disenchantment, but with tits. See below:

It was during my self-timer photo shoot before heading out that I fully accepted that I’m actually like…super hot. Awesome rack, cute freckles, lush lips, a proper wagon…the works. We’ve established that being conventionally attractive in this society means people are more likely to listen to what you have to say, give you things for free and just generally treat you better. In other words, it’s a privilege!

I hate the way capitalism has cheapened the “influencer” label. What was once a term that simply described someone’s ability to effectively convince others to take certain actions is now akin to a eurocentrically beautiful femme person who goes on all-expenses-paid trips and constantly touts 10% off promo codes. When I began my journey of posting content at the beginning of this summer, I knew that I didn’t want to go down a superficial route. I also knew I wasn’t interested in garnering a following just because I’m pretty. I wanted to wow people with my abilities to see situations for what they truly are and unravel the difficult web of feelings associated with living in the imperial core as the current conditions reach an Armageddon stage. I’d say I’ve had pretty significant success on that front so far.

But now that I’ve proven my ability to communicate ideas in a way that resonates, it’s time to take all of this a step further. I’ve had several strangers tell me that they’re trying to be aware of how their parasocial relationship with me is manifesting. I’m quite vulnerable and bold on this silly little internet, which has caused people I’ve never met before to feel like they know me. The tricky part is that, in a way, they actually do know me. None of my video content is engagement farmed or for clicks; I just sit down at my dining room table and speak from the heart. Pretty much everything I’ve posted on the internet is a conversation that I’ve already fully fleshed out with one of my loved ones, or is something I discuss with them shortly after posting.

I studied marketing/communications in college, had a brief stint at a PR agency and now exclusively do audience research in my current 9-5. I’ve been trained to sell ideas to the masses by capitalism’s best marketers. In more ways than one, I’ve developed a razor sharp ability to communicate insights in a way that sticks, and ultimately prompt people to change their behavior. And I’ve done all of this so far without even really leaning into my conventional attractiveness and my ability to make people fall in love with me through a screen.

Basically, what I’m saying is: the capitalist would prefer that I use my propensity for achieving icon status as a way to sell products and generally placate the masses. This directly contradicts with the spiritually-led path I’ve chosen, which is to use my physical marketability in addition to my ability to actually market things to galvanize the masses into destroying the empire. This is the plan. There’s no getting off this train now.

So my dear, I’ll be needing you to come along for the ride. On this journey, we’ll be exploring how deep the law of attraction truly goes. We’ll experiment with creating an attachment that is parasocial but still productive. To effectively do this, we’ll need to look at public figures who I energetically align with in some capacity, and compare how that energy further aligns with the people this public figure has attracted thus far (their “fans” if you will).

Because ultimately, I’ve realized that I don’t want “fans,” I want disciples. I don’t want to be an idol, I want to be a muse. My emotional impact on the masses must be similar to someone like Megan thee Stallion’s, but the inspired action must be to synchronize with your surroundings and upload into collective consciousness rather than throwing that ass in a circle (which, to be clear, is still extremely necessary and fantastic, but it still stands to be seen if twerking can exclusively save the world).

Therefore, I consider my attendance of Meg’s Hottieween party at the iconic TAO Chicago a bit of necessary studying, if you will. And gol-ly, did I take fucking notes.

My friend sent me the link to join the waitlist for Hottieween after the first round of tickets sold out. However, by sheer luck, following this link didn’t take me to the waitlist join page, but rather the queue to buy from a newly listed round of tickets. I was in and out with a pair less than two minutes later, and was frankly stupefied by the mere $100 price tag (with no taxes or fees!). Access to a club frequented by international elites, complimentary food from Nando’s and freebies from NYX Cosmetics, an open bar and lot’s of extremely hot women, including Megan thee Stallion (plus a surprise Angel Reese!!!!!)? For one singular Benjamin? In this economy? It felt like highway robbery. I was elated.

Honestly y’all, this night was a fucking movie, right down to the perfect timing of my edible activating just as I arrived at the club. My friend Dani had already gone through the line and gave the bouncer a “she’s with me” as I arrived at the velvet ropes near the entrance. He began to give a reason why I couldn’t cut the line but immediately folded when she loudly rolled her eyes. It was hot, to be honest.

Legally purchased and consumed THC was thrumming through me at this point. Dani and I took turns photographing each other in front of the Hottieween backdrop. Something about posing in front of a flashing camera felt abundantly…correct.

We made it upstairs to the party around 11, but the sprawling club was only about 1/3 of the way full. A Megan song was playing upon our entry, of course. The actual queue of music for the night was pretty damn excellent. I remember the first song by a white artist that played was Poker Face by Lady Gaga and I thought to myself: “Deserved.”

The DJ himself, however, was a far too eager straight dude who had the audacity to interrupt the “Make love to meeEEeEEEee” part of 1+1 by Beyoncé (which he played far too early in the night, btw) with an extremely unnecessary “Slow stroke it!” which immediately tanked the vibe. Like, this club was full of hot Black lesbians and we audibly jeered. Once again, I thought to myself: “Deserved.”

There were a few other Beyoncé songs played during the night, but the only one immediately coming to mind is the last two minutes of “SWEET HONEY BUCKIN.” I remember getting so angry at how good that song made me feel, because I was then forced to think about how bad the photo of Beyoncé grinning ear-to-ear alongside Kamala Harris made me feel. It was so startling to visually see them as members of the same category, which is the capitalist ruling class. I hated how simply having excellent music taste involuntarily put me in association with the apex of the world’s most lethal empire. I realized that this is what the Black girls of today are doing with their magic, and it made me sick.

It’s hilariously annoying how pretty much every situation comes down to a manifestation of the class struggle. These conditions explicitly incentivize us to commodify everything good about ourselves strictly in the pursuit of capital, and will always remind us of the divide between the “haves” and the “have-nots.” Take for example, when I took a brief respite on one of the few couches that wasn’t roped off, only for an employee to still tell me I couldn’t sit there. I thought to myself, “Heaven forbid these settees bear the butts of the poors, even for a moment!”

There was also a large section of seating near the DJ booth surrounded by security guards that remained largely empty as the night went on, despite the steady stream of attendees filing in. It was unspoken that this area was exclusively for Megan and her chosen individuals, which further spoke to the monetary (but also social) class divide. The fact that an A-list celebrity would even willingly show up to an event where the general public is much closer than usual was astounding on its own; it seemed perfectly reasonable that Megan wanted her own space to be around people she actually knew for the party tied to her name.

But the larger question that kept resounding in my head was simply…why?

Why is it that talented, conventionally beautiful people cannot exist in public without the valid fear of getting rushed by a crowd? Why is it that, when in the presence of a talented and conventionally beautiful person, other people with varying levels of talent and conventional beauty seem to become feral and must have physical barriers put in place to prevent them from acting on their impulses? Why is this the dynamic we’ve chosen to socially accept, when it’s so abundantly clear that it brings out the worst tendencies in everyone involved?

When Megan stepped out of the elevator in her blue-painted glory, the energy in the room suddenly became very desperate. The already tightening crowd became tighter as every smartphone camera shot into the air (with flash on, of course). Everyone was dying to get a glimpse of the iconic hot girl, myself included. She looked incredible, but she also seemed very overwhelmed and a bit anxious. It started to feel more like we were crowding around a zoo exhibit rather than having fun at a Halloween party.

My hyper-empathy was telling me that Megan was aware of this shift, too. I thought of the line in her song “Cobra” where she says: “I’m killing myself when bitches would die to be me.” To be at your wits end but still have the entire world clamoring to get close to you must be such a psychologically damaging experience. In that moment, I felt sadness. I sincerely hoped she was okay.

The over-zealous man who insisted on shouting the lyrics to both “Freak Nasty” and “BOA” at full volume while Megan was trying to address the attendees was a bit too much for me, so I squeezed my way out of the enamored crowd to the back of the club where it was way less dense. I wandered into the NYX activation near the bathrooms, which also had a Hottieween branded mirror and a bunch of candy bowls.

I ended up lending my phone’s flashlight to a pair of girls who both came solo but wanted properly lit photos of their killer outfits. I lost count of how many cute, serendipitous moments of kindness I exchanged with various women throughout the night. It was an abundantly healing and joyful experience which served as a reprieve from all of the pain in the world.

In fact, when I introduced myself to a 6’1” diva donning a catsuit and red buzz cut, she said “Wait, you’re Grace, that hot commie bitch!” Funnily enough, I had actually already met this girl at the Chicago date of the SWEAT tour, and I had given her one of my cards with the aforementioned slogan because I thought she was cute and passed the vibe check.

Even though I’ve since taken on the “liberationist” title due to being grossed out by the white supremacy in traditional communist organizing spaces, I was ecstatic that the branding I came up with managed to stick in this woman’s mind nearly a month after our initial meeting. She said that she kept the card on her desk and would always look at it, unsure of what to message me about. Basically, I made an extremely bad bitch feel shy. I couldn’t believe it, actually.

Shortly after that, I clocked a girl wearing a crocheted dress and immediately had to compliment her because I have firsthand knowledge of the craft. Once we began the process of exchanging Instagram handles, she realized that she actually frequently consumes my TikTok content. She said that it was refreshing to see someone talk about things that actually matter, and to my surprise, expressed that she was feeling a bit starstruck.

I also chatted with another girl who held my hand and told me that she really appreciated my commitment to masking in public because it signals to immunocompromised people that I do, indeed, give a fuck about them. She told me that hot people engaging in good behavior is what the world needs right now, and that my efforts to promote mask wearing in public did not go unnoticed. It was the second time in my life that I felt truly seen by another person.

The first time happened earlier in the night when I stumbled into a psychic’s booth in the corner of this nightclub. She said that she could tell I’m an extremely empathetic person, but also emphasized that there was so much power within me waiting to be unearthed. She said I’m focusing on doing one or two things right now, when I really need to be doing like five things. She implored me to stop holding back the ocean of energy that surges within me at any given moment. It was as if the universe was finally giving me confirmation of my intuition that I’ve unnecessarily distrusted for so long. The entire experience brought me to tears.

The pure elation I experienced upon realizing that others see my intentions and actions for what they truly are is a high I’ll be chasing for the rest of my life. I think deep down, we all just want other people to see us; not just our physical forms, but our hopes and our dreams and our spirits, too. Even further, being able to see ourselves in others and vice versa is, in my opinion, the pinnacle of the human experience. It’s a breaking of the illusion that tells us we’re all separate from one another, when in reality, the same life force causes all of our hearts to beat as one.

It’s because we’re all bound by the same energy that my stomach turned when a dreary Megan had to be helped into the elevator at 3:45 AM. People screamed her name and more cameras flashed, but this time her million dollar smile and pristine wave were nowhere to be found. Aggressive unease washed over me after witnessing that. My friends and I found ourselves wandering down the spiral staircase to exit shortly afterward.

The girls wanted to hit a 24-hour diner nearby, but I opted to take my free Nando’s wings and head home instead. I felt like a categorically different person on my ride to my apartment than I did at the beginning of the night. It was like a metamorphosis had taken place…or rather, a transformation had been completed. In short: something fucking shifted.

But that shift has only brought my mission and purpose into clearer focus: I am a conduit for the universe’s process of self-correction. It is through me that these current oppressive structures will be overturned and destroyed. In order for the necessary number of individuals to go down this path, someone must first lead the way.

I’ve now accepted that everything in my life has been preparing me for this moment when I finally, loudly and unequivocally say: I volunteer as tribute. I wasn’t kidding when I said there’s no getting off this train. We’re headed straight for the Capitol now, and I know deep in my gut what we must do. We will win, because we have to. The grip of our chains weakens more and more each day, and I can promise that these restraints are the only things we stand to lose.

It’s time for the Black girls to reclaim their magic. Allow me to do the honors.

With love,

Your G.F. x